Monday, April 18, 2005

What am I? A stock option?

"Oh, it's like that. Haha. You're a jerk."

It appears M. Biologique changed the rules with his worshipping girlfriend since we had "the talk."

It appears "Lily, we can't; I have a girlfriend" has become "Lily, why not? She knows about you."

It appears they've "opened" their relationship.

It appears I'm the only other person on his bloated menu.

It appears he's also testing my jealousy quotient (thus, my patience).

Despite ending our call on a high note, frivolous and nonchalant, I'm currently in a state of disenchantment and hardened disappointment. (Don't worry, it won't last long. I'm a cynical optimist).

I feel like I'm at a crossroads thanks to this coward.

Should I start whoring myself to level the playing field? No, I can't be bothered (and NorIda only gave me a handful of condoms to last me my entire academic career).

Should I wait for him to choose? No. What difference does it make being his primary pillar or not? It doesn't change the fact that principles have been hindering promiscuity.

Should I stop seeing him? No, because I refuse to leave without getting mine. I'm determined to fuck him before our fringe benefits shrivel up (no pun intended).

Gentlemen, I do believe this is a written testament of one woman's unraveling. I've taken the plunge. Pray that I retain my youthful candor and get through unscathed.

***

What a hypocrite! It was only last semester that he was preaching the powers of monogamy and now he's jokingly accusing me of being some kind of "wild" seductress who led him astray. Puh-leeze! I don't see a crowd clamouring to install my pole, bud. I know I have a tendency to confuse mistreatment for love, which I think is the case for a lot of women. This correlation is deeply embedded in our cultural psyche. It's no accident the cycles of abuse found in various partnerships mirror the traditional story arc of harlequin fiction. Tension is built to the breaking point. She resists, he insists. His aggression wins her over. Emotional drainage is mistaken for bliss. And so on and so forth. Only now, rather than playing for laughs (Jackie Gleason on The Honeymooners), it's mistaken for passion (who isn't guilty of fantasizing Gone With the Wind's thinly veiled marital rape scene?).

Am I this insecure that I don't think I deserve better? Of course not.

But finding someone better is altogether a different matter.

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